by J. D. Palmer
It’s as if he wants to work himself to death. And when he isn’t working he moves from room to room. Alone. But as if he were avoiding someone. As if he expects someone to follow him there eventually.
When someone you love suffers, you suffer along with them. Even if you find comfort in everything else. Even as you revel in the first sanctuary you’ve ever had. Your body and mind can do this. Your heart darkens and shrivels alongside the other.
Truly winter.
Brody also has nightmares. A lot. His crying woke us up on the third night we were here. We were already downstairs by the door, guns being passed out in a silent assembly line, when Wren appeared from around the corner. She was half awake and on her way to Brody’s room. If she was surprised, or frightened, at our gathering she did a good job disguising it. Later she told me we had “scared the ever-lovin’ shit out of her.” She punched me, lightly, on the shoulder. I was okay with that.
She was shocked that we hadn’t heard him the first two nights we were here.
Turns out Jacqueline’s trip towards the small town, the day we had met, wasn’t something planned. It was for batteries. Batteries used for two walkie talkies, for flashlights and an electric lantern, and an old Walkman. Brody has a tape, a song about a baby whale. If he listens to it before he goes to bed, sometimes he sleeps the night through. Otherwise, it’s a night filled with screams.
Hard to be mad at him.
Especially when he comes up and leans against your chair, pale with dark bags beneath his eyes. Or when he gropes for your hand. The kid has no inhibitions, and his touch is not something I can shy away from. That I enjoy it when he seeks me out is an unexpected surprise.
“What do you want to be when you grow up?” he is fond of asking. As if we aren’t all grown up, or there is an option for us now beyond surviving.
“Football player,” Theo says. And he’s one of Brody’s favorites. He goes to Harlan and asks, but Harlan just shakes his head. He doesn’t even look down at the boy. Eventually Jacqueline leads him away, asking him to show her his favorite cow from out the window.
Something happened to Harlan, something that we don’t know about. And I can’t figure it out.
A detective. That’s what I had wanted to be when I was little. Unlike most kids, I didn’t move on to other occupations, I didn’t change to firefighter, or astronaut, or president. I always wanted to be a detective. I wanted to solve mysteries. I wanted to save people. And the older I got, and the more I learned what detective work actually was; finding the people who had already done the evil, long hours of thinking and frustration, chasing leads in a ruthless manner, and rebounding when they were nothing (and they were almost always nothing)… The more I wanted it. I wanted the lifestyle that the profession dictated. Minimal contact. Physical and mental work. Putting families back together again.
It’s safe to say that sleuthing won’t be necessary, or wanted, for awhile now.
I guess I had always liked, romantically, the idea of solving something. Anything. Of putting a start and finish to anything. For someone else. And I’d get paid. And I’d get to be flawed. Because, if movies had taught me anything, it was that the people who were really, really, good at those jobs were really messed up.
Perfect.
I’d get to use my weird upbringing for good. And, at least in my head, I’d be the detective that skirted the boundaries. The one that was the best, but was always caught up in… situations.
Because I believe we were all flawed before, I haven’t changed that much.
A detective would follow Harlan around, would point to his behavior, and would ask his close ones about his past. I am all of those things, at least as far as this world is concerned.
For now.
Harlan is a moral person. One of those people who will still torture themselves for things that are beyond their control. The “if I had only” type of person. Whatever happened that night… I don’t doubt it was out of his control. That he can’t see that, or speak of it, is… frankly… his fucking problem.
But dammit I wish I could help him. I’d pull the heart out of my own chest… My cold, uncaring heart, and give it to him and take his always bleeding and too large heart, and bear the pain myself if I could.
But I can’t. So there is nothing but the cold.
I sit by myself. My brother joins me on the landing. Settling his large body in next to the stack of books by me, idly opening one and flipping through it as if he’s interested.
I give him time. Harlan is too impatient for moments such as these, he rips into situations with the resolve that the quicker he knows the problem, the sooner it can be fixed. Sometimes I wish I could tell him you can’t pull the knife out of a wound, sometimes it’s better to leave it in until later. My metaphors are always slightly gruesome. I wish I had a better way to explain myself.
I know what he wants to talk about. Theo went hunting with Sam and Cristen. A change in meat was the excuse. That we had burned through their winter stores wasn’t mentioned. Theo had volunteered with enthusiasm, as is his wont, and they had left before the sun rose this morning.
It was a silent trio that returned. They had the meat from a good-sized buck. Cristen gave one antler to Brody and then, after a pause, gave the other to Pike. They sit side by side with their prizes, Brody playing and Pike chewing and both eyeing the other’s with jealousy.
But something was amiss with Theo. When you are as large of a man as he is, there is no hiding the stoop of your shoulders, the hang of your head.
Sam says nothing, other than a brief description of the animal they killed. Cristen is exuberant, but a bad actor. She has a story that has not been told.
So I waited on the staircase, knowing that Theo would come to me, or to Harlan.
“You know what happened to Har?”
A quiet question that I wasn’t expecting. But I’m also curious, and had wondered if he knew the answer. “No. He…”
“Doesn’t talk about it,” he finishes. He doesn’t add to that, and I don’t push him to tell me about whatever it is that’s bothering him. Sometimes we know we have to talk, but we don’t know the words. I, of all people, know this. I will wait with him. Sometimes patience is enough to help someone fill the gaps.
“It’s been cold,” he says.
“Yes.”
“I sleep by myself.”
A small smile. I should tell him that he wouldn’t have to, but that is a talk from one of the boys. Gods, how much he has changed from Camelot.
“I know.”
“It’s been really cold.”
I give him a sharp look and give in to some of my impatience. “You said that.”
He pretends to read the book sitting open in his large hands. “I have to keep asking for blankets. Don’t know how people live up here. I fucking… I get cold.”
I am getting better, but it still takes me a moment. A moment to knock down the walls that will allow me to scoot closer to him, to put a hand on his big forearm and to pat his back. It’s easier than expected to lean on his shoulder. Surprising. I waited here for him to come talk to me of what happened. I did not know that him sharing this with me would, in turn, provide something for my psyche. Him sidestepping his weaknesses, his fears… it makes me bold with mine.
“I have about fifteen blankets now. So… Yesterday, I wanted to, you know, since it was warmer… I wanted to wash them. Mama always was, I mean, she’d wash our blankets all the time. And…”
He takes a deep breath. The same deep breath he always takes when he’s about to do something uncomfortable. Clear a house. Test canned food. Jump from a bridge, perhaps.
“So I start taking the blankets off my bed and I get down towards the bottom and there is a… there is a dead mouse.”
I want to laugh. This is not where I thought the conversation was going. But I pat his hand and lean closer to listen. To really listen, even when I want to wonder what haunts this man at night compared to that which haunts me.
>
“It was dead. I guess it burrowed in there, you know, to stay warm. And I kept adding blankets.” He is thoughtful, eyes distant as he speaks. “I was always like this. Mama stopped getting me pets after my cat died. And that was after the gerbil. But I…” His eyes take on the glassy hue of someone about to cry, but who won’t. “I always hated to see them suffer.”
He composes himself, leaning into me and almost knocking me into the bannister.
“Mama knew, and she thought it was something nice. But my friends, they never let up. Never let it go. Why I joined the football team, why I started… You know, I wanted to change my reputation. But my mama knew.”
He heaves a heavy sigh, finally looking me in the eyes. “I couldn’t kill that deer today. And I won’t. I wanted to… help. But I’ve just…” He looks at his hands. “I killed people. With my bare hands. But some of these creatures, they’re just trying to find someplace warm. I don’t want to kill that. I’m just… tired of it.” His eyes are beseeching. “Do you get me?”
No.
“Yes.”
He nods. “I cried. I think Sam and Cristen think something’s wrong with me.”
“You… are probably the most… normal.”
He laughs his high-pitched giggle. “Nah.” His face grows serious. “I thought it would be great to be feared. And it fucking sucks. It fucking sucks. Sometimes I wonder if I was born into a different body, if maybe I wouldn’t have… Been like I was.”
“I’m… Not afraid of you.”
He snorts. “Cuz you the craziest bitch left on this planet, Berly.”
A compliment.
We sit in silence for a bit. I am thinking about how we both, we all, have taken such scars in finding our true selves. Plastic surgery to peel away false layers.
“I should tell Brody I’ll be a veterinarian when I grow up. If that day ever comes.”
“Really?” I say.
He’s puzzled. “Yeah, I think so.”
“You’d… put animals… to sleep?”
He grimaces, then nods. “Better someone who cares, right? I can be that guy. And it’s not all that. It’s making them well, too. It’s… helping them go gentle if you can’t.”
The words sit there, and they make sense, though I know caring isn’t the word I would have used. I see Rita’s shocked face in my mind. I wonder what Theo would say about that.
“Death is a part of life. But I hope we don’t have to kill again,” he says. “I hope we don’t have to fight anymore.”
I don’t respond, and he takes my silence as my natural reticence, not as a silent rebuke. He should know better.
HARLAN | 28
THERE ARE MOMENTS that I feel like I’m on a ship at sea. Not adrift, but a literal shifting of my footing beneath me. Moments when I wonder if there was another earthquake, until I look at the people around me. Times in which I feel my center of gravity go askew, and I stumble, or my leg misses a step.
I don’t know why. Too many blows to the head? Or just a manifestation of all my missteps in a most literal sense.
Time heals all wounds. That’s what they say. That’s what you’re supposed to cling to in your darkest times, I suppose. In time this too shall pass.
What if you’re out of time? Out of time and have been for a long time.
Today is November fifth. According to the calendar centered on the refrigerator by a magnet. A calendar with the fresh new X across the square. November fifth. The due date. Somewhere, either today, or yesterday, or soon… Somewhere, Jessica is in labor.
If.
And I’m in this cabin, walking from room to room in an effort to be alone. But close. Proximity seeming to be important. A need to hear words being spoken, only not spoken to me. Voices laughing, or joking, or arguing; signs that somewhere life goes on. A semblance of normality that drives me nuts and offers comfort at the same time.
I had been doing well. Keeping it together, or at least preventing the others from noticing just how close I am to unraveling. But today is the day. And I need to be alone, but not with silence. I need to hear the life going on around me. For my sake.
And… it distracts me from the little blue-eyed boy that still follows me from room to room. From the imagined red footie prints that trail him. The smudge on the pajamas covered in trains.
The boy has changed. The boy I traumatized, and the boy I’ve imagined all these months as what my own child will look like, have blended together to form this specter. Only the eyes, and the hair, and the sorrow remain the same. The rest is a distorted blur.
I mumble prayers and curses and apologies, hoping one might find a divine spirit or one might find Jessica and offer her… Something. Hell, I even speak to the Goddess that watches over this house.
Beryl seeks me out periodically but knows to give me space. It’s the last thing I want, but it keeps the guilt at bay. Partly. Ever so partly. The thoughts still manage to creep in, whispers of doubt about Jessica and her survival. Her odds. The little voice saying she would want me to be happy. That she wouldn’t begrudge time with this woman who has come to mean so much to me.
I feel like a traitor.
November fifth. The world is still outside. No snow falling and no wind howling. Just the heavy drifts of snow sitting like an implacable ocean dividing me and the way home.
A frozen world. And myself, frozen in frustration.
I feel myself souring. I feel it, and am unable to stop it. I’m aloof, and irritable, and hard to be around. I find comfort in work; rolling out hay for the cows and horses. Bringing in snow to melt into drinking water in the large cauldron that sits on top of the wood stove. Bringing in armfuls of wood. Going out with a sled to trudge in a new direction, a random shot in the dark to see if there is a house that has been missed, or passed over. Sometimes I just sit inside and look at the pictures on the walls.
No one wants me around. Even my friends. It isn’t said, but it’s felt. My presence putting a damper on finding a refuge. Safety. People willing to take them in, feed and keep them warm, save them from a winter that is far harsher than I remember.
I get mad at them for this. I get mad that Josey looks so happy helping with the horses. That he is so frequently called upon to bring his guitar out at night. Only Felicia and I look on from the shadows, both too lost in our own worlds to take part in the joy.
Theo is himself again, slipping free of the quiet that has been a part of his his persona since leaving Camelot. His confidence returns. The swagger that I first saw. He positively blooms at being needed. And knowing how to channel it. His height, his strength… his ability to mash potatoes… He fits right in.
And I enjoy hearing his high-pitched laugh as he learns how to play cards, even if it makes me feel more alone. Pinochle is the game, played with an odd deck made up mostly of the face cards. And it’s cutthroat. Teams are made, and I can’t tell if they are speaking a new language or just outright cheating, but it’s competitive enough that even Sheila takes part. As long as she tries to “watch her mouth.”
But I can’t. I can’t play games while my mind is hundreds of miles away, wondering… wondering… always wondering.
And the boy who follows me. Everywhere I go. A soft whisper of small feet to echo my own heavy tread.
He finds me upstairs. I’m alone repacking my bag. Checking my belongings. Matches and batteries. Flashlight. Gun. Knife. I’m coming Jessica. Hold on. Hold on. Please just get through this.
A sniffle. Snot and tears from a kid who can’t comprehend the gruesome nature of the scene in front of him. Only that a stranger is here. And his father… is not. The crying. The boy cries after I send him back to his room so I can complete my task. A life for a life. Death or more death.
“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” I say.
“You didn’t.”
“Not you… Your family. Your dad. I didn’t want to…”
“You hurt my dad?” The young boy is perplexed. “Why?”
“To… I don’
t… I thought I was saving someone.”
“Okay. Do you want to play cars?”
I don’t want to be let off this easy. I don’t want it to end this way. I want him to yell, to scream, to curse me for what I did. I reel away from the blue eyes, the blue eyes that are pools of water untouched by a taint such as me.
“Leave me alone!” I yell it. I can’t take it anymore. The blood. The innocence. That he is always there, waiting for me.
“Leave me alone! Leave me the fuck alone!”
We are shut in for the winter. In one building. So even with a door closed, which it isn’t, the sound carries.
And I’m yelling at Brody, not some ghost.
Bent over running a toy car over the dead socket on the wall, though now he’s frozen. Eyes shocked and scared and unable to look at me. The quivering of his chin, and then he collapses onto his butt. I hear footsteps on the stairs. Querying voices. I can’t seem to look away. The boy and I trapped in a vortex in which we both are too traumatized to heed the questions of the people that come into the room. The pats on the arm. The worried looks. We stare at each other and he doesn’t cry, though he wants to. And I don’t cry, because I don’t know if I can anymore.
I have to leave the house. I can’t deal with the questions to come. The “why would you yell at a child?” Or, even worse, if no one asks at all. The pitying looks and the whispered justifications. I don’t want to be present for that.
My steps are fast, carrying me away from the house and down by the frozen creek. Cold wind feels good on a face hot and flushed. I didn’t grab a coat, and I relish the jagged cold that burns by hands and face.
How does one talk about this? Do I tell the group that I murdered a father in cold blood? Do I exaggerate his flaws? At least the ones I know? Do I make him a monster? Or do I tell them that he put a coat around my shoulders and spoke softly while his wife stitched me up?
Do I infect my family with my guilt? Do I make them think of this monstrous thing every waking moment the way I do? Would that make me feel better?
